Unconventional Tears
by SolarRose29
Summary: Pulling in a shuddering breath, Clint braced his arms on the counter top, avoiding Tony's gaze. "I promised myself that I would never let you see me cry." Requested sequel (sort of) to Escape From Certain Death.


I always consider a fic a success when I receive a request to have a sequel. A good friend asked for a sequel to Escape From Certain Death. So that's what this is. :) But there is absolutely no reason to read that one first. This is more like a related fic, than a true sequel.

* * *

Tony absently wiped a palm on his jeans. Leaning back in his chair, he surveyed the tangle of wires spread across the tabletop. The prototype was far from finished, but he'd made sufficient progress in a short time and he figured that was reason enough to listen to his stomach when it told him it wanted a break for dinner.

"All right, J, lock it up," Tony directed, rising and grimacing as stiff muscles moved for the first time in hours. He crossed the lab, skirting around robots, tools and reams of note-scribbled paper. "Great work, everyone," he praised his mechanical assistants, raising a hand in farewell as he stepped out the door.

The door slid on its track, smoothly letting him out into the hallway beyond. It gently closed behind him and Tony couldn't keep a contented smile from his face. He made his way up toward the kitchen, feeling generally happy. Sure, there was always the nearly impossible task of tracking down Hydra (and the all-powerful scepter they had stolen) lingering in the back of his mind. But he had a beautiful tower to live in, a new project to complete in his workshop, and five other superheroes to share space with. What more could he ask for?

He strode into the kitchen, not surprised to find a fellow Avenger already inside. It was only four thirty in the afternoon, a bit early for a conventional dinner. But since when did Avengers do anything conventionally? They not only broke society's rules, they rewrote them.

"Hey, Legolas," Tony greeted.

Clint, standing at the counter on the opposite side of the room, was facing away from him and didn't respond to the call. Tony shrugged and rifled through the cupboards for something that appealed to his selective appetite. Pop-tarts, jars of peanut butter, Nilla Wafers and microwave popcorn were all shoved aside as Tony dug around for the box of Ritz crackers he knew was somewhere in the pantry.

"Is the birdy feeling peckish?" Tony questioned, snickering to himself.

The only answer he got was something that sounded suspiciously like a sniffle. Tony frowned as he tugged his snack out. Setting the crackers down, he stared at the Clint's back, trying to decide if he'd imagined the sound.

"Did you just sniffle?" Tony inquired, because asking was easier than attempting to read body language and Tony Stark had no aversion to doing things the easy way.

"Maybe," Clint grunted, with another wet snort.

Tony circled around the table. "Are you getting sick?"

"No!" Clint protested. "I don't get sick."

"Right. I forgot. Spies can't catch the flu," Tony muttered, coming to stand next to the archer.

He opened his mouth to complain about the unfairness of the assassin's good health, while Tony himself was prone to at least one bout of fever every winter. But the sight of Clint's face froze his jaw in midair. For a second, Tony thought he was hallucinating. He pinched his arm, just to check his grip on reality. The quick flash of pain didn't change what he was seeing.

Tears ran freely down Clint's face, pouring from both eyes unchecked. The marksman's nose was red beneath the leaking eyes. Saltwater dribbled down his cheeks, curving around the shape of his jaw, some slipping into the crack between his pressed lips. But Clint made no move to wipe away the tears.

"Uh..." Tony's brain froze.

His initial panic had him scanning the room for Steve. Their team leader had an uncanny ability to appear in moments of distress, willing and able to solve the varied crises they landed themselves in, whether physical or emotional. Unfortunately, the kitchen remained obviously super soldier-free and Tony turned his attention back to the weeping archer.

His deep swallow did little to ease the knot his stomach was twisting itself into. "Clint..." he began. But no other words would come out.

Clint glanced at him with water-swollen eyes. "I'm sorry, Tony."

Those words sent a shiver of dread through Tony's limbs. His overactive brain jumped at the chance to imagine what kinds of terrible things must have happened to reduce the stoic secret agent to open sobbing in the kitchen.

Pulling in a shuddering breath, Clint braced his arms on the counter top before him, avoiding Tony's gaze. "I promised myself that I would never let you see me cry."

The unexpected and shockingly sappy admission only made Tony feel even more uncomfortable with the situation. He shifted his weight and snatched a nearby paring knife to occupy his hands.

Clint huffed a self-conscious laugh. "I guess some promises were meant to be broken."

Licking his suddenly dry lips, Tony ransacked his mind for the appropriate thing to say. He wondered how Steve was always ready with the perfect words to settle even the most distraught person. The only thing Tony's tongue wanted to do was to crack a joke. But the tear tracks on Clint's face told him such an action would not be welcome.

"It's okay," Tony finally managed to mumble, wincing at how stupid, pathetic and useless the words were.

Clint merely blinked at him, a stray tear dripping from an eyelash as he did. Tony fiddled with the knife some more, knowing he probably needed to say more. Half of him recoiled at the idea. The other half knew Clint would do it for him if their places were reversed. Maybe. Or maybe Clint would just grab him a beer. Maybe he should grab Clint a beer. That sounded like a much better idea.

Just as he made up his mind to retrieve a couple of bottles from the fridge, Steve stepped into the room. Relief nearly blew Tony over. He'd never been more happy to see the captain. He exhaled and set the knife on the counter. Clint looked over his shoulder at Steve. Tony tried to figure out how to slip out as unobtrusively as possible. As he skirted past Steve, he was surprised to find that the captain's face wasn't creased in empathetic concern, as it always was whenever one of the team was hurting. Instead, Steve barely gave Clint a passing glance, moving instead to the stove and putting a skillet on the burner. Righteous anger flared in Tony and he was about to point out Clint's misery to the oddly oblivious soldier when Steve spoke first.

"Clint, are you finished with those onions yet?" Steve queried.

Tony took a moment to process the bizarre question. But when he finally sorted out the words and their implications, a different kind of anger filled him. He whirled on Clint, who was smirking at him.

"I got them right here for you, Cap." Clint moved to hand him a bowl, revealing the cutting board on the counter in front of him that Tony hadn't seen before.

"Wait, so you were..." Tony started then cut himself off to glare fiercely at the archer.

"It's nice to know you care, Stark," Clint commented cheerfully.

"Shut up," Tony grumbled, feeling the flush of embarrassment.

"What's going on?" Steve inquired, taking the onions from Clint and dropping them into the skillet with some butter.

"Barton's neither sick nor sad," Tony informed him dryly.

Steve only looked more confused. Clint laughed, ripped a paper towel off the roll and used it to clean his face.

"Call me when dinner's ready," Tony grunted, excusing himself from the room.

"I love you too, buddy!" Clint called after him.


End file.
